


Chicago Nights

by Dandee



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Angst, Brooklyn Nights, Cheating, F/F, Lesbian AU, Lesbian Sex, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-22 22:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12492564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandee/pseuds/Dandee
Summary: It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s not comfortable either. There’s a clock, there’s always a clock somewhere ticking, tucked back in a corner of Shea’s mind.Sasha’s already packed for the morning. Her suitcase sits on the chair by the window.She’ll go back to Manhattan tomorrow.





	Chicago Nights

**Author's Note:**

> **AN** \-- I’ve been having trouble with Brooklyn Nights lately, so I wrote this to get me back into the swing of things =] I wrote it in a couple of days so if it’s garbage, that’s why. Just a reflection piece from Shea’s POV, in the universe of Brooklyn Nights, set a few months before chapter 1

"You’re going to get me in trouble,” Sasha says. Her rich voice resonates, bounces off the Killem-beige walls of the room.

Shea loves this picture.

She’s angelic-- her amethyst eyes glassy from hours of lovemaking, a satisfied, lazy grin gracing her features, unruly blonde curls tumbling over her bare shoulder. She’s bringing her ankle up Shea’s calf and inching toward her, scooting closer, her fingertips grazing Shea’s arm. 

“That’s the understatement of the year,” Shea says, flicking the lighter. She flicks a few more times before she gets a flame.

Sasha tip-toes her fingers across the small space between them. “I’m getting a bad reputation. I’ve been charged for smoking my last three visits.”

Shea takes the first hit, gets a good cherry going. 

“Well,” she says, pearly wisps floating into the air as she speaks, “you are smoking.”

“You’re smoking.” Sasha props herself up on an elbow. She leans forward, hovers over Shea, her eyes flickering to her mouth. Shea puffs again, and she reaches up to tuck one of those loose curls behind Sasha’s ear. Sasha grins, leaning into the touch, then says, “I just reap the benefits.”

Shea chuckles and pulls her closer. She blows the smoke into their kiss, and Sasha moans soft.

She loves this picture too. The way Sasha looks when she pulls back; propped up on her arms, pale pink nipples bared, a cheshire smile planted on her face while two perfect streams of smoke drift from her nostrils.

Nevermind the way she’s looking at her. If looks could kill, Shea would be long dead by now.

She nestles back down, but this time she’s closer-- she’s weaseling herself under Shea’s arm, laying her head on her chest. Her hand rests on Shea’s stomach, fingers tapping lightly, and she grows quiet. They both grow quiet.

It’s not an uncomfortable silence, but it’s not comfortable either. There’s a clock, there’s always a clock somewhere ticking, tucked back in a corner of Shea’s mind. 

Sasha’s already packed for the morning. Her suitcase sits on the chair by the window. 

She’ll go back to Manhattan tomorrow.

There was always an expiration date on this thing-- it wasn’t ever supposed to end up like this. It was supposed to be a fling, a floozey. Shea’s a bartender, at a fucking hotel, she knows how this goes-- people come and people go, it is what it is, all of that. She knows all of that. 

It doesn't change what happened.

 _What had happened was_ \-- there was a day she was working, a day like any other day, and someone cute took a seat and ordered a drink. Not uncommon. Nothing Shea couldn’t handle.

Well then she came back.

Again.

And again.

And then she was a regular. Sasha. The girl from Russia who lived in Manhattan, the editor in chief of Velour Magazine. She was here on business, every other week, for days on end. Though she was quiet at first, it only took a little prodding to get her to start talking.

The rest-- it’s hard to remember exactly how it happened, honestly.

All Shea knows is that she was suddenly looking forward to the first and third Monday of each month. When her eyes scanned over the arrivals sheet and landed on the name _Velour_ , her breath would hitch in her throat and her pulse would quicken. When she would see that silhouette slip through the doorway and into the bar, she would have to make great efforts to hide her creeping, shit-eating grin.

And there was that night-- that first night.

Sasha had held Shea’s attention captive all night. They were deep in a discussion about Jean Paul Gaultier, Shea comparing his influence to that of Naomi Campbell, Sasha disagreeing, or _something like that_ , who knows-- and Shea had truly neglected her other guests. Sasha had a few drinks, Shea had thrown back a few shots, and there was this tension, this electricity buzzing between the two of them. 

When she’d closed up that night, no one left, the bar phone had rang. Sasha-- asking ever so sweetly-- if a bottle could be brought to her room. 

“I guess we’re even, though,” Sasha says, pulling Shea from her thoughts.

Shea blinks and takes another hit. “What?”

“Well, you know,” Sasha continues, “you’re playing with fire, coming up to my room all the time. I can pay for the smoking, kind of makes things even.” Shea can feel Sasha smiling into her skin, and she chuckles.

“They ain’t gonna do shit.”

“Mm, never say never.”

Shea shifts to look down at her, and Sasha meets her gaze with a challenging brow. 

“They’re not,” Shea says, then gives a slight shrug against the sheets. “Listen, this place is so ass-backwards,” she lets out a breath of a laugh, bringing the blunt to her lips briefly, “if they were gonna fire me, they would’ve done it a long time ago.”

It’s not all the way true, but it’s not _not_ true. 

Shea’s pretty sure half the staff knows what’s going on.

Yes, it’s against policy to go to guest rooms. Yes, it’s against policy to sleep with the guest, and yes, it’s against policy to smoke in the room, with the guest, specifically marijuana. But anyone industry with half a brain knows what’s up. Shea’s slept with many a guest in her time at the hotel, smoked and snorted many an illegal substance in a guest’s room. It’s -- it’s kind of a thing, this is Chicago. She’s a bartender, and such is the life.

Sasha gives a little resigned sigh and lays her head back down on Shea’s chest. 

Shea sighs in response to her sigh and pets her hair. 

She stares at the ceiling and wonders, puffing mindfully, entertains the idea of convincing Sasha to stay another night, if she even could.

Shea had come to hate Thursdays over the last few months-- but just here lately, she’d come to hate Fridays. Sasha had been very uncharacteristically lenient with her schedule, had recently been very apt to extend her visits an extra day, giving reason to “needing another day to tie up loose ends”. 

Not a complete lie to Mister Velour.

See, this was the shit-- this is where it got sticky. This is where it all went wrong, where it all went to hell. There were three things Shea motherfuckin Coulee did _not_ do:

One, she did not cuddle. She wasn’t gonna bring her sleepin’ bag either-- she might fuck a stranger but she ain’t about to spend the night. Yet here she is, lying in bed with Sasha, absentmindedly toying with her platinum curls. 

Two, she didn’t fuck married women. It was too risky, too messy, it always ended badly. Someone alway ended up getting hurt. Yet here she is, lying in bed with Sasha, her ring-less fingers drawing shapes into Shea’s skin.

And three, she didn’t fall in love. That was just something Shea didn’t have time for-- love was overrated, it was fake. People were fake. People weren’t worth that kind of devotion, not when you had bills to pay and a life to live. 

Yet, here she is. In bed. With Sasha. 

Wishing that time would stop, wishing she just could lay here and listen to the soft whistling of Sasha’s nose and the low hum of the air conditioner, wishing she could feel the contrast of the cool sheets and Sasha’s warm body pressed against hers for-- well, for a lot longer than just tonight. Wishing that these stolen moments, these hours spent in a commercial hotel room could actually evolve into a life, that it held the prosperity of continuing, not ending.

It would be different, if Shea knew she was hers. If she knew Sasha loved her and only her, if she knew she’d see Sasha tomorrow or the next day or even in the next two weeks, if it wasn’t just promised. But she wasn’t hers, isn’t hers-- she’s his. There’s a day coming, a day when Sasha won’t come back, won’t come back to the hotel and Shea knows it-- so every moment spent together feels nostalgic. Shea already misses every moment, as it happens.

It’s not healthy. She’s aware of that.

She’s not that girl, to play the role of the other woman. To pine over someone who loves someone else. It’s pathetic, self-deprecating. It’s embarrassing.

Kim gets it. Sort of. She’s met Sasha, and she thinks her nice enough. But Shea can see the hint of-- pity? The sadness in her eyes, when they’re out and about and someone tries flirting with Shea. Kim knows she’s stuck on Sasha, that she couldn’t move on even if she wanted to. It’s not fair, but she can’t let it go.

“Shea?”

She looks down at her chest to see a much softer brow-- furrowed, concerned, but soft, gazing up at her. Long, slender fingers reach up to brush against Shea’s cheek, her eyes piercing as they dart back and forth between Shea’s.

“Is everything alright?”

Shea tilts her head back for a moment, trying to will the moisture that had betrayed her back into her eyes. She blinks quickly, then brings the cigar to her lips. She nods as she inhales.

Sasha’s not buying it, of course she’s not. Sasha knows. Sasha always knows.

Her eyes don’t leave Shea’s as she reaches for the blunt, trapping it between her fingertips and pulling it away. She takes a long drag, her cheeks hollowing and her eyelids fluttering, and smoke curls into the space between them, drifting up around her unwavering gaze and toward the ceiling.

“Tell me.”

Though her voice is barely above a whisper, it’s determined. She’ll wait, even if Shea’s silence lasts minutes. 

Shea chuckles hollowly. “Nothing, I just--” her voice breaks off, not into tears, but an incapability to speak with confidence, with clarity. Sasha’s free hand finds one of hers and clasps it, threading their fingers and squeezing gently. 

“I was just-- I don’t know,” Shea rolls her eyes in spite of herself. “I was thinking maybe you could stay another night?”

Sasha’s face doesn’t really change, not at first. She blinks slowly, gives a soft laugh through her nose. She looks down to their hands.

“I want to,” she says quietly. She runs her thumb along Shea’s.

“But…” 

“But,” Sasha nods, glancing up with a serious expression, “I have a meeting on Friday morning. An early meeting.”

“Right,” Shea nods with her. Of course not.

Sasha grows quiet, but this time it’s uncomfortable. It’s tense. Sasha takes another drag of the blunt and passes it back to Shea.

“I’m good,” Shea says, short.

Sasha meets her eye with a look that’s hard to place. She sighs defeatedly and raises herself from the bed. 

Shea watches her bare ass resentfully as she walks to the bathroom to flush the roach. That cute, perfect little ass that turns cherry red with enough smacking. She wants to smack it again, not because she’s turned on, but because she’s pissed right now.

“Are you pissed right now?” Sasha asks on her way back, her tone slightly irritated. 

“No.”

Sasha places a hand on her hip and stares at Shea with a cocked brow. When Shea says nothing, she runs a hand through her hair and sits on the edge of the bed. Shea sits up, resting her back against the headboard.

“You know I want to,” Sasha repeats, gazing at the wall in front of her. 

Shea brings the covers up over her breasts and hugs her knees to them. 

“I know.”

Sasha’s eyes fall shut at her response. She knows Shea’s upset, and Shea knows she’s being somewhat unreasonable, and that it’s upsetting Sasha. It’s a familiar scenario, and it’s just as stupid as every time it’s played out before. 

Because it should be simple. It should be easy to just say, ‘I love this person. This is the person I choose.’ It’s that easy for Shea. It’s always been that easy for Shea, but it’s not up to Shea anymore-- she’s lost all power in the situation. It’s up to Sasha, who won’t do anything. Sasha, who won’t leave her husband, won’t sacrifice anything for Shea.

Kim said it’s a sign, that Shea should see things for what they are. “Don’t trust the rich white lady,” she says.

Sometimes she really thinks about listening.

“Please don’t be upset,” Sasha says, turning to look at Shea. It’s those eyes-- that’s what makes Shea weak, makes her believe all the bullshit. Her azul eyes are often like a book, wide and open for Shea to read. Sasha hates her marriage, hates her life in Manhattan. Hell, she might even love Shea. It's all there, Shea can see it all.

The problem lies in the fact that it’s only Shea that sees this side. It’s a lot harder to tell what the truth is when it’s just you looking. 

If only Kim could see these moments, maybe Shea could feel validated. If someone else could see how much Sasha loved her, maybe she wouldn’t think it was all a lie. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so fucking crazy. 

She sighs, still holding Sasha’s gaze. “I’m always upset when you leave.”

And when Sasha crawls back to her, she doesn’t move away. She never does. 

She never wins, not really. 

But Sasha’s hands come to rest at either side Shea’s face and everything’s gone--everything disappears the minute her lips touch Shea’s. Sasha practically melts into her, straddling her lap and hanging her arms loosely around her neck. The feeling of her tiny, naked body against the blanket sends Shea’s brain into a tailspin.

Her nails rake lightly down Sasha’s back, stopping at her ass and squeezing it gently. She then gives it a hard slap, and Sasha pulls back with a gasp and a surprised smile.

“You _are_ pissed.”

Shea chuckles in response. Before Sasha can say anything else, Shea flips them-- Sasha on her back and Shea above her, hands pinning her wrists to the mattress, a knee sliding between Sasha’s thighs. She gasps again, then exhales shakily, brows together as she lets a whine escape her, looking up at Shea.

This picture might be Shea’s favorite.

Sasha, naked under her and completely at her will. Looking up at her with need, whining, mewling like a kitten, moving her hips against her leg and begging to be touched.

Shea leans in to kiss her, but this time it’s slow, chaste. Sasha slows her pace to match Shea’s, and Shea lets go of her wrists, lifts her up to sit with her, swiping her tounge along her bottom lip and deepening the kiss. She runs her hands downs Sasha’s shoulders, and Sasha sighs into her.

Shea has never wanted to kiss someone just for the sake of kissing them, just for the sake of closeness.

Yet again, here she is. With Sasha.

When she breaks away, Sasha pulls her back to her, resting her forehead against hers. Shea closes her eyes, relishes in the feeling of having her here, in her arms. She gives a long sigh, and whispers,

“Don’t go.”

She feels, hears Sasha’s slow, deep intake of breath. They stay that way for a moment, in the dark, pressed against each other.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” Sasha murmurs. 

Shea gives a low groan and pulls back, pushing another curl out of her face.

“It’s still gonna be too long.”

Sasha grins regretfully and takes her hand, bringing it to her lips and pressing a kiss to her wrist.

“I know.”

 

*****

 

Shea hates this picture.

Sasha’s pulling back, her hands slipping away. Her eyes are aquamarine in the early morning sunlight, and her heels click along the pavement as she slinks backwards, giving a wistful smile before climbing into the taxi. 

The big yellow door shuts and Shea stands there, watching it go.

She’ll be back in two weeks. She bought fancy orchestra tickets for them. West Side Story at Steppenwolf. She’ll stay an extra day, and they’ll go shopping.

Promises, promises.

And it doesn’t really mean shit to Shea. The sentiments are sweet, so she just goes with it. Sasha’s trying to be sweet, trying to make up for lost time.

Kim’s words ring in her ears as Shea wanders into the middle of the street, hands in the pockets of her jacket, and she sees Sasha’s face in the back window one last time, just before the cab takes the corner.


End file.
